


Case at Hand

by neevebrody



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Sheppard a PI?  Or how about Dr. Rodney McKay, M.E., or Ronon Dex, Gold Shield detective for a major Metro police force, or Captain Teyla Emmagan, head of the Twelfth Precinct?  Put them all together with the paranormal and an elusive killer and you have the Case at Hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Case at Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to evoke the feeling of the old film noir, 40s style detective novels, so the fic is written in first person narration. Now I know that's not everyone's cup of tea, but do give it a chance. It really lends to the tone of the fic and 're privy to a few tidbits and asides you'd never get with third person. I did research a few things, but just remember, it's the paranormal! Also, there's an almost farcical air to the fic, and that's to remind us not to take it too seriously, although there is another whole layer to the story that begs to differ.

Rodney carefully cradles the phone in the charger and looks up at me. It was one of the most unusual cases we've ever handled together - one for the books, literally. At one point, I thought the only way we'd ever see the inside of the Twelfth Precinct again was through the bars of the cells in the basement and a brief moment there when I thought I'd never see Rodney again, or anyone else for that matter. But hey, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The name's John Sheppard. I work as a private investigator here in the city. I've worked every kind of case from corporate espionage to busting cheating spouses, but for the past couple of years, I've had the dubious fortune of working some of your more unusual cases. My partner in crime, so to speak, is Doctor Rodney McKay.

People think it's a joke when he describes himself as a freelance medical examiner, but that's really what he is. He's associated through the FBI and someone there once told me that McKay was a brilliant med student, could have walked right into a six figure a year practice, but he turned it down. He's from one of those old money families upstate. A famous orthopaedic surgeon, it was his father who wanted him to be a doctor, but Rodney's his own man. He never wanted to practice medicine - you have to deal with people all the time and have a modicum of a bedside manner - and Rodney's not your basic people person, he's perfectly happy with his dead bodies. I personally think he went to med school just so he could prove he knew more than any of the instructors and his old man put together.

He may be all arrogance and bluster, but make no mistake; he's damn good at what he does. He can find an elusive cause of death where three other MEs can't. He has ways to make a dead body talk to him, seriously a real talent.

How we got together isn't really important. Let's just say we met while both of us were consulting on a case with the cops. I mentioned the Twelfth Precinct. My contact there is a guy named Ronon Dex. He calls me up sometimes when he's got an unusual case. Great guy, a no excuses, no holds barred, take no prisoners kind of cop. We hit it off right away. As an ex-CID officer, I guess we just see things the same way. The work with Dex is strictly pro bono. We work those cases for the sheer challenge and the thrill of helping catch the bad guys.

McKay and I were like oil and water at first, but by the end of that first case, which he solved by the way, we were kind of inseparable. A couple of months later, he invited me to share his townhouse, where he lived alone. I think I'm just about the only live person he can stand being around on an extended basis, and I was having a hard time trying to make the paycheck from one investigating job stretch to the next, so I didn't need much convincing. Don't get me wrong, I pay my way around here, even though Rodney tries to refuse me every time. It's a great arrangement and besides, McKay stimulates my brain and believe me, there aren't too many people I can say that about.

Now, while Dex and I see things pretty much eye to eye, he and McKay are like gasoline and a lit match. It's a hoot to sit back and watch them go at each other, trying to figure out which will be the first to blow or the first to back down. I have to say, McKay stands his ground pretty good most of the time. I think Ronon lets him have the last word a lot, because Rodney's expertise has given him the key to unlock several unsolved cases, and that brings me to the case at hand.

About six months ago, McKay and I are sitting around, probably fighting over the TV, typical evening, when I get a call from Dex. Seems he's got something he wants us to take a look at. I suspect it's something he really wants Rodney to take a look at, but he's not likely to come out and ask McKay.

We're to meet Ronon in the morgue and I gotta tell you - not my favorite place. Now, they're like second homes to Rodney, but they just creep me the hell out. It's not what you'd expect; I've seen the dead and dismembered… plenty. I don't know, maybe it's all that stainless steel or that smell that no amount of antiseptic on earth can eliminate.

We follow Ronon inside while he gives us the lowdown on our project.

"Guy's name is Roland Wright, Rollie to his friends. Some hack writer, somebody said he used to write for television, movies, some shit. Writes romance novels now, those schmaltzy bodice-rippers full of feelings and purple prose. Associate found him dead in his duplex over on Arkwright." Not a prestigious address by any means.

"Wow, you mean you've already got that much information on the guy?"

"He's been dead a week, McKay. We've been keeping him on ice."

"Are you serious? What for? How did he die?"

Ronon smiles at him. "That's why I called you guys. Want you to take a look at him."

"Well you've--have you at least laid him out? There's not much I can do with a popsicle, you know."

Ronon points to a sterile slab of steel a few feet away with an ominous black body bag lying on top of it.

"How long has he--I've told you before, these things have to be precise." Rodney gives Ronon one of his classic smirks and wiggles his hand into a protective glove.

Dex turns to me and rolls his eyes. We watch Rodney unzip the bag and thump on the guy's chest, like he's a melon or something. He pokes and prods a bit more until he seems satisfied, then he starts to set up. He's tying on one of the throw-away gowns when he finally looks over at us.

"Okay, working here. I'm sure there's beer to be guzzled and women to be ogled somewhere in the city. Seriously, I have no idea how long I'll be--unless, of course, you want to stay and help?"

Ronon blanches and I grab his arm and steer him toward the door.

"Call you when I'm done," Rodney mumbles as we're walking out.

~~~~

Eddie brings my usual, beer and a shot of Bushmills. Dex orders the same. Eddie gives him a disarming smile and heads back to the bar.

Ronon looks around. "I don't know why I let you bring me here."

"Because you enjoy my company and you like to indulge me--makes it easier for me to want to help you, remember?"

Ronon grunts and doesn't look at Eddie when he sets his drinks on the table.

"Besides, I like this place. Nice, quiet, and nobody bothers you--unless you want them to." He's not very receptive to my attempt at humor, so I change the subject to what he really wants to talk about. "So, what is it you think you've got here?"

He gets this look on his face I don't see very often. "Seriously? We don't know. There's no sign of foul play, no forced entry, we've got absolutely zero in the way of a COD."

I knock back my shot. It sounds to me like the guy just croaked, so I tell Dex, "Sounds to me like the guy just croaked, what's the deal?"

"The deal is we can't determine why he croaked. Even 'natural causes' has to be caused by something. It had nothing to do with the fire."

"Fire?"

"Yeah, didn't I mention that?"

"No, you left out that little tidbit of information."

"Well, that's sort of why I called. The scene was a mess, the walls, floors, furniture, all charred right up to where the fucker's sitting, then nothing. Nobody reported smoke, a fire, nothing and the guys from the 2-1 are baffled, the room was fucking cold by the time they arrived."

I give him a look. What he's saying doesn't make sense.

"Our MEs are stumped. They say there's no evidence of smoke inhalation, the guy was dead before the fire, yet he's the only thing in the room untouched.

"Jesus. I'll admit, it's a little weird, but--"

Dex drains his glass before motioning to Eddie for another and Eddie moves like his ass is flaming. "Yeah, well… trouble is, this guy's not our first and I've got a real bad feeling. Like he ain't gonna be the last, either."

~~~~

McKay's ranting before we make it all the way through the door. He's got the phone to his ear and slams it down when he sees us. "Finally. You apparently don't have your cell phone on you, again. I've called half the bars in the Metro area, where the hell were you?"

"We, uhm, went to Ruthie's. So--"

"Oh no, no you didn't, that was the first place I called."

He's got this look like he wants to argue about it. I shrug and pretty much say the first thing that comes to me. "Well, maybe whoever answered didn't recognize the name."

"Yes, I thought of that." He looks over to Dex. "That's why I gave them a description - nice looking guy and a seven-foot cop who looks like he just stepped out of GQ, only with three-foot dreads. Common? I think not."

He's all wound up about something, that's for sure. "Well, we're here now. So, what've you got?" I'm hoping he'll just drop the whole thing, but his eyes have that distinct we'll talk about this later look.

"Yeah, right. Here," he says, stepping over to the microscope, bidding me to look. Then he looks over to Dex. "Really, I don't see how your guys missed this. I mean, it does take a skilled eye, but--hey, you guys aren't hiring MEs from the CSI Miami School of Medicine are you?"

I stop this before it can get out of hand. "What am I'm looking at, Rodney?" I can feel him rolling his eyes and he's probably doing that cute little half-turned-down pout, but then the less I think about Rodney's lips the better.

"Oh for--don't you see it, the little places that look like explosions? Do I need to draw you a picture? The County MEs obviously need a refresher course."

I still don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be seeing, whatever McKay's talking about is just barely visible. "Sure, so what does it mean?" I look up to those penetrating blue eyes and the dreaded McKay smirk.

"You don't see it, do you? I knew you didn't see--"

"McKay?" I give my voice that edge he hates.

"Oh, okay." He turns to Ronon. "Your victim died from having his brain fried… scrambled… over easy, whatever, but the cell death here in just this one section is phenomenal.

I turn to the dead guy on the slab, the guy with the top of his head sliced away. It's weird and kind of surreal - kind of looks like that stuff you see in the supermarket, sweetbreads, only like a real stomach-turning shade of grayish blue. Thankfully, Rodney's voice draws my attention back into the conversation. He's clearly excited about whatever he thinks this is.

"I'm willing to bet if I took a few more sections, I'd see this throughout the brain. Just phenomenal."

"How?" It was Dex.

"How? Jesus, I just gave you the answer to the $64,000 question--you wanna know how, too?"

"Look, McKay, we've got no forced entry, no evidence of foul play, no evidence of anyone else in the home aside from who can be accounted for. Forensics has nothing! Now, you're not suggesting the guy's brain fried itself are you?"

Rodney crosses his arms and I could have predicted the chin lift - like it's hooked to some invisible wire - and for the life of me, I'll never understand what's so endearing about that pose.

"Of course not," he says. "Listen, don't take it out on me because your guys suck at basic pathology. You want a how… you're gonna have to give me a little time… and a helluva lot more information. I need to see your file and the initial autopsy--"

I raise my hand to shut McKay up. Frankly, this whole thing's giving me one whale of a headache. I ask nicely if Dex is keeping any of the others on ice.

Rodney's eyes widen before he levels that glare. "Others?"

"Wright here isn't the first, so--"

"Oh. Oh, well, and what you're saying is he may not be the last…" I think my tone finally gets to him.

"Yeah, yeah--I get it. So, anyone else you want me to take a look at?" He walks over and pulls two fresh protective gloves from the box. "Bring 'em on."

~~~~

It's after 2:00 am when Rodney finally shuffles through the front door. He insisted I didn't need to stay at the morgue and I didn't have to be told twice. He looks up at me, standing at the top of the stairs, then turns and goes into the study. I'm not waiting around or anything, it's just I happened to still be up, so I make my way downstairs. He turns from the bar holding a glass containing a couple of fingers of rich amber liquid, then takes a seat in one of the leather wing chairs.

"Little late for that, isn't it?"

He shakes his head and knocks back half the glass, wincing as he swallows. "I just re-examined four bodies, sectioned each brain from different lobes and ran correlating programs on the findings. Plus, I skimmed through each file." He looks straight at me. "Why the hell didn't someone tell me about that fire?"

I shift my eyes away. In all the ruckus after we got back to the morgue, it just slipped my mind. "And?"

His voice is even, maybe a little tired. "It's electrical."

"What is?"

He cuts his eyes at me and, damn, it's embarrassing what that look does to me. I go over and sit in the chair opposite him.

"The cell death--in the brain. It's caused by the electrical impulses that occur naturally, the same ones that fire millions of times a day, but it's… it's like something's kicked the switch up a couple of notches--major overload. And that many instances of such complete and utter degeneration… no way it's coincidental."

"So, I take it this isn't natural behavior and we're looking at--"

"Murder, if I had to put a name to it. But I'm damned if I know how… " He drains his glass and gets up to go back to the bar. I follow him and place my hand on his before he can pour more.

"Hey, why don't you get some sleep?"

He cocks his head sideways to look at me. We're about the same height and it suddenly strikes me how close he is and how easy it would be to just lean in and… and then I realize I'm staring at his mouth. When I look back into his eyes, he doesn't seem to have noticed, but he doesn't move his hand away either.

"Nah, I'm all keyed up. I need to think about this for a while," he says, like he's asking my permission. "You go on, though. Wouldn't want to keep you from your beauty sleep."

His smile is weak but his eyes flicker with that thing he gets when he can't let go of something and I know there's no use arguing with him. I remove my hand and take a step back and for a moment, he almost looks sorry, like he thought I was going to stay and try to talk him out of it, but I just nod and turn around. There's a loud clink of glass on crystal as I pass through the doorway.

~~~~

There are very few pleasures like waking up to the smell of coffee and bacon. McKay's still in the study when I finally drag myself downstairs. "There's, uhm, breakfast if you want it," he calls as I pass by the door.

I stop and peer in. He looks like he's been up all night only his clothes are all rumpled, so I figure he slept on the sofa. Already at the computer, he's got his coffee cup in hand and breakfast beside him - bacon and scrambled eggs. I think about the dead guy in the morgue and go for just coffee.

As usual, McKay's rattling on from the study. I catch snatches here and there, but for the most part, I have no idea what he's saying. I smile thinking about the look on his face when I ask him to repeat it all. I'd go ahead and interrupt him, but really, that expression's worth it every time.

His brows are scrunched over those incredible blue eyes and his whole face gets this pinched kind of look.

"I said… don't you ever listen to me?"

"I always listen, Rodney. It just helps if I'm actually in the same room when you're talking." I take a seat on the other side of the partner's desk and sip my coffee. "That way, I don't miss any of your brilliance." He perks up at that. Figures. Flattery does what my plaintive stares and quick smiles can't.

"Anyway--I've got a theory about these cases. We could be dealing with psychokinesis here."

I lean forward a bit, because that is interesting. Straight out of left field and highly unlikely, but interesting. I can't wait to see how he's going to put this together.

"In every case, we've got the same brain overload, and, as I said, that can't be a coincidence. But after studying the case files…" His notes are spread out all over the desk. "The situations, locations, etc. every thing else points to totally random. There's no apparent connection between the victims--the only other consistent factor here is there's weird shit in each case."

"How so?"

"Well you know what happened with F. Scott Fitzgerald here." He tosses over a photo of Wright's apartment showing the small, untouched ring around the dining table. "The first victim, uhm, Ms. Emma Gorsin, something strange was reported in the officer's notes, but only as an observation. It appears there was evidence of a fire at that scene too--well, possibly an attempt at one. Minor scorching in the living room, but like it had no direction or purpose--just some blackened drapes and charred floor moldings."

I shrug. Noteworthy, I suppose, but not that weird. "Anything else?"

"Well, Gorsin was found in the bathtub. The charring was two rooms away in the apartment." I just blink at him 'cause it could have been an electrical mishap, who knows how long the drapes could have been that way. He can tell I'm not impressed. "Okay, so not so strange, but still, what I'm seeing with each subsequent case is an acceleration of activity to or around the victim. Admittedly, this first was a bit tentative."

"But, you've still got the same amount of brain-frying action in each?"

"Yep. Complete toast."

"So, what else?"

He grabs the mouse and starts to scroll. Evidently, he's preparing a report for Dex. "Second case, James Howe, found in a shed behind his house, weird shit factor: door is locked and barricaded from the inside. Mr. Howe is found fully clothed and hogtied - we're talking wrists and ankles and twisted like a pretzel. I'm thinking he didn't barricade the door while tied up, nor did he rope himself. Third case, Martina Suarez, found crouched in a corner of her studio apartment, weird shit factor: lived alone, door locked and bolted from the inside, floor around where she was found was scorched, but no other evidence of fire and no trace evidence whatsoever except what belonged to Ms. Suarez and her eight cats. Case number four, Malcolm Rothenberger, found--"

"Okay, I see your point. So, where are we? How come nobody sees anything--knows anything?"

"John, I'm not sure the perp is even present."

His voice is calm and steady and I can tell he's totally serious, but that's ridiculous and I call bullshit right away. "You're telling me someone's ability is so strong they can do this kind of damage and not be anywhere around? Remote brain frying? I don't buy it."

Now he's giving me that save-me-from-the-morons-of-the-world look and, admittedly, I'm not too fond of that one. "Again, you fail to hear what I'm saying. Psychokinetic ability, telekenesis, mind over matter--I mean the perp can be nearby certainly, would have to be in some proximity, but no, they don't have to necessarily be in the same room.

"Look, the way I see it, this cell death is likely caused by disruption in the ability of the electromagnetic impulses in the brain to connect via the synaptic pathway, allowing the electrical activity to build up, then it's like an arc--the electricity has to discharge somewhere. As with a stroke, this alone could incapacitate a person in a matter of seconds."

"How do you explain the fire in Wright's case, and the fact that nobody noticed anything?"

"Ah, some psychokinetic abilities work at a molecular level, you can't see the activity with the naked eye, but atoms are being manipulated, through vibration, at such a rate, either sped up or slowed down, thereby increasing or decreasing the friction which causes heat to build up. It's like spoon bending, only this is causing friction so intense as to facilitate actual combustion that, as far as I can figure, the individual can turn off at will. After the flash fire, the rate of elemental interaction is slowed down to cool things off again. But if you ask me, all this extraneous activity is strictly for show, or the inadvertent or unconscious release of pent up anger and emotion. Of course, I guess it could be an actual hatred or desire to inflict damage from the perp's perspective."

I pick up the photo of Wright's apartment. "That's some rage."

"Exactly. Didn't you ever see Carrie? The movie Carrie, you know, high school, wacko mother, Sissy Spacek, the girl's shower scene in the beginning… pig's blood."

"I saw the movie, Rodney."

"Not to say there was much basis in fact there, but I do believe this behavior would become easier to control with practice, and frankly, that's what scares me. Whoever's doing this can obviously control it now, slowing down the rate of manipulation so as to put out the fire, even leave the room cold."

"So you're thinking… this isn't their first rodeo."

His voice sounds kind of awe-struck when he answers and he has this weird look in his eye. "Well, there's an incredible acceleration in ability just from Gorsin to Wright with regard to the pyrokinesis, but yes, I feel this could be a case of someone actually developing their skills. It really is quite remarkable."

"And deadly," I remind him. "Is there anything I can do to help? I was thinking I'd check ViCAP, see if any other crimes fit our circumstances."

He gives me a look. "You read my mind. I was just about to do that when you came in."

I offer to do it instead, convincing him that he should get some sleep. After getting the parameters for the searches he wants, which takes so long, I could have done it already, I settle down for a good few hours of work.

The hits I'm getting are really interesting and kind of exciting. Programs like ViCAP make it easy. Yeah, I know it's only used by law enforcement agencies, but McKay's got some special dispensation from the FBI, so we've got access. I'm getting hits from California, Oregon, North Carolina--they've all got a handful of similar cases. Some with the same locked doors, others with breakage and damage at the scene, but no fires. The fire thing must be a new superpower or something.

I suppose this is as good a place as any to let you know that I'm a real skeptic at heart. Being ex-military, I need facts. I still believe there's a logic-based answer for most things, and my only stake in all this is helping find the bad guys. I have to admit, though, since hooking up with McKay, I've seen my share of the strange and unusual, but still I don't count myself among the totally converted.

I print out the lists. There could be something in any one of these cases that'll lead us to a suspect. Finally, I give in to my enthusiasm and call Dex instead of waking Rodney, but after I hang up with him, I'm heading up to Rodney's room anyway.

He looks ten years younger when he's asleep, such a temptation to brush my fingers through his hair or lean down and drink in his sleepy scent, but I manage to keep a lid on it. I've had a lot of practice, after all. "McKay?" I punch his shoulder instead. "Get up, we're wanted downtown."

~~~~

Predictably, he grouses the entire way to the Precinct and more than once I wish I'd just left him in bed. Dex didn't exactly say there was another body, but I knew from the tone of his voice this wasn't a social call.

We follow Ronon into an empty interrogation room. "Wife found him early this morning." Ronon hands us photos and Holy Mother, it's the damnest thing I've ever seen."

McKay's flipping through the pictures. "Jesus. There's nothing here to work with at all. I assume dental records--was there even--"

"Yeah, we've got a positive ID. You wanna hear the angle--"

Rodney interrupts immediately. "Angle? You've got a… person sitting on a sofa, only they're burnt to a crisp and there's hardly even a scorch mark on the fucking sofa. Angle? This is the exact opposite of the last victim."

Ronon nods. "That's not all."

This time, I look up because I really want to know what's more unusual than that.

"Victim is Marcel Fryeberg. Married, two kids--one kid's already been placed with Child Services--a few weeks ago. Wife finds… this when she gets up this morning. She mentioned there was an odd odor, but says the guy was always cooking and burning shit, so she didn't think anything of it."

Rodney's still examining the photos. "Yes, well, I think it's safe to say the poor son of a bitch didn't set himself on fire. You sure about the wife? What'd the arson guys find?"

"Nothing. No traces of accelerant. Wife says she didn't hear a thing, neither did the kid nor any of the neighbors, and this isn't one of your upper East End townhouses, it's a shitbox, but no screaming, no crying out, nothing."

"Yeah, well McKay thinks he's got an explanation for that. Apparently, whatever causes the damage in the brain could incapacitate the person almost instantly. So the guy kicks first and all the rest is overkill."

Ronon doesn't look satisfied and turns to McKay. "All I wanna know is, is it the same MO, same cause of death?"

"Why? You had a run on human torches this week?"

I try hard to rein in my grin and look over at McKay.

"What? I think the answer's obvious, don't--" He balks at my glare and shakes his head. "Look, there's nothing--the guy's a cinder. I'm not sure there's anything I can--"

Before he finishes his thought, the door opens. It's Dex's boss, Captain Teyla Emmagan, head of the Twelfth. Rodney and I have had the pleasure of meeting her a couple of times, but we try and steer clear of her. I'm not sure she likes PIs much, but I'm fairly certain she doesn't care for help from the outside. She and Dex are usually at odds about "consulting" with us, although I'm sure she doesn't mind keeping her unsolved cases to a minimum.

To look at her you'd never figure her for a cop - a dancer maybe and smart. She's very petite, but she could probably kick our collective asses, Ronon included. I've heard stories about some of their workouts, both on and off the City's time. Stories Ronon won't admit or deny, so I figure they're true. She's no nonsense, just like Dex, but she goes by the book and being answerable to the Commissioner and any number of other bureaucrats, that's understandable. She does, however, seem to have a soft spot for Rodney, and that's about the only thing the two of us have in common.

Standing there, she gives both of us a look, the same as my grandmother used to get if you tracked dirt in on her clean floors. I never did understand how she expected kids to leave dirt outside, just like I'm not sure what we've done to deserve that look, but it makes me cringe all the same.

"Doctor McKay, it's good to see you again," she says, then gives me a none too polite, "Sheppard." I nod and just like that, she's talking to Dex like we're not even there. "Why are they here?"

Dex makes his usual plaintive explanation. "Captain, we're stuck. I just thought they could help, this case is sorta getting into their area of expertise. I didn't ask you first because we didn't have time to--"

"There is a proper chain of command here, Detective, is there not? "

"Yes, ma'am, but--"

"One I expect you to abide by in the future. So, have they come up with anything helpful?"

Rodney proceeds to fill the Captain in on what we have so far and I'm throwing in my bit on our search for other cases when he suddenly interrupts.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa… I've got an idea." His eyes are wide and I know that look - the one that means I probably won't be seeing him for a few days. He takes the notes from me, chattering about packing and checking flight schedules. After scribbling something down on a pad, he rips out the page and shoves the reports back to me. He's almost out the door before I stop him.

"Call you later," he says, pointing to the papers in my hand. "Contact those offices, let them know I'm coming. Get them to send you their reports so we can talk--oh, and I need photos or diagrams of the the scenes, uhm, you know, windows, doors…" he snaps his fingers, "…access, in relation to where the victims were found. See you in a couple days."

Captain Emmagan clears her throat and all eyes turn to her. Rodney stops and turns around, a look of growing impatience on his face. It isn't easy to read that stern stare of hers, but it doesn't look good. I can't tell if she thinks we're usurpers or potential heroes.

"What's the harm, Cap'n? Sheppard and I will be here going over the information. If McKay's got a hunch, why not--"

She raises her hand to silence him. "Doctor McKay is not a member of the Twelfth Precinct, Detective Dex, nor is he officially affiliated with the county in any way."

"But you could confirm his association. All it takes is a phone call," he adds hopefully.

A long stretch of silence hangs in the room, drawing a line between the Captain and McKay and I feel a tiny bit of pride when Rodney seems to sense the assurance she's looking for.

"It's research and yes, it's only a hunch, but if I can just get a look at their evidence, see their reports… if my suspicions are correct, there has to be a common denominator somewhere in this equation. If it's there, I'll find it."

"You sound very confident Doctor, but if I agree and the slightest thing goes wrong, the Twelfth and this county--"

"Yes, yes, I understand that, but… look, think of me as an independent contractor. The county won't be out anything. I won't commit the county to anything and I'll take care of all my own travel--"

"That is not my main concern, Doctor McKay. Perhaps I should send an officer with you?"

"Actually, I work better alone, or with Sheppard, but he needs to stay here." Rodney's voice is right on the verge of that annoying whine.

"It might help if I knew what kind of research--"

"Ah, see, I'd rather keep that close to the vest at the moment… in case it doesn't pan out, which I have every reason to believe won't be the case."

She crosses her arms in front of her and squares her shoulders. "So basically, what you're asking, Doctor McKay, is that I trust you?"

Something short of a grimace pinches Rodney's face. "Uhm, yes, pretty much. Yes."

Like watching a tennis match, Dex and I have been going back and forth and we both turn to the Captain at the same time. As soon as I see the barest hint of a smile, I breathe a small sigh of relief.

"All right, go. I'll see to everything here. Detective, I want to be kept up to speed on this. I want reports on what you two are doing and reports from Doctor McKay. It is imperative I be kept in the loop. Understood?"

Dex nods and McKay's already halfway down the hall. I have no idea what's on his mind, but even if no one else does, I trust Rodney. Even on a bad day, I'll take his hunches over most sure things.

~~~~

I love modern investigating. Technology spreads its tentacles into every aspect of our lives - sometimes creating monumental hassles, but other times it can be the difference between life or death when hunting down the bad guys, not to mention dramatically reducing the amount of actual legwork - more like virtual legwork. Online resources have increased and through McKay's FBI connections, we're fully networked with law enforcement agencies all over the country.

Sitting at my computer, I'm waiting for the reports from California to fully download. Dex paces behind me. The first report is from Palo Alto. From the dates of the incidents, these are the earliest crimes. The chronology is important and gives me a little jolt of hope. There are no overlapping dates and no subsequent similar cases in these areas. We've got a clear line of demarcation that indicates when the crimes stopped in one location, they began again in another. Right up to the point our own cases began.

It's likely we're looking for a single individual and now we just have to find him in a city of 1.5 million people. Piece of cake as McKay would say.

Over the next few days, Dex and I pore over the reports from the different counties. A few of the cases are eerily similar to ours with victims left in strange positions, odd notations and observations in the files and some with a lack of definitive causes of death.

Some of the cases, though a little strange on the surface, turn out not to fit our profile at all and these we agree to discount. Still, we're faced with too many unexplained and unresolved matters that do fit.

Rodney and I talk on the phone several times. We go through the reports, but he still won't say what his hunch is or what he's researching or even if he's getting lucky. He sounds tired but it's good to hear from him. We usually take these kinds of trips together and I kind of miss not being in the loop on what he's thinking.

The last time we talk, he says something about having all the pieces, but just needing to get them to talk to him. Then he says he wishes I was there and I wish I was too… but I know he just means so I could do a share of the work.

~~~~

It's warm and dark where I am and there's a noise trying to edge its way into my dreams. I try to pull myself awake. The noise is coming from downstairs. I crack open one eye and try to focus on the clock - it's freaking 1:00 a.m. The noise is clearer now, the clamor of flatware and plates, someone's in the kitchen. But the house alarm hadn't gone off, surely I would have heard it. It has to be Rodney. Oblivious, as usual, that some people actually like to sleep at night. I think about going back to sleep, but it's been three days. Instead, I figure a good night's sleep is overrated and roll out of the sack.

He's making a sandwich when I get to the kitchen and when he looks at me and smiles that crazy crooked smile of his, I know he's found something. I think I smile back.

"Sorry I didn't call. I took the first flight I could get. Aww, how sweet, you were so anxious to see me, you couldn't bother getting dressed." He picks up his plate and a bottle of beer. "Study," he calls over his shoulder as he passes, leaving me with the dawning revelation that I am indeed standing there in nothing but boxers. Fuck.

I find a pair of sweats in the laundry room, give them the sniff test and drag them on before heading for the study. This time, I pull my chair over beside him. He puts a thumb drive into the computer and I ask what he's found out.

"Well, you know some of the cases aren't like ours and we can disregard those altogether."

I nod.

"Okay, the others? Not so much with the weird shit, but I scoured the autopsy reports and in a few cases got a look at some of the frozen tissue samples and guess what?"

"Fried brains?"

"Exactly. I don't think the MEs really knew what they had, but anyway it's not on the same level we've seen in our case, which bolsters my acceleration theory. And, in three of the cases, we've got a fractured hyoid bone and corresponding pettichiae."

"Strangled? How does that match with our cases?"

He smiles. "Ah, there are no outward signs of strangulation. No bruising or lacerations of the neck, no ligature marks or striation as with a rope or cord or anything else, and that bone's not breaking on its own, especially not three times. I'd say the disorganized nature of some of the early crimes could mean that the perp might have been present at the early scenes--even if we're going with the theory that these deaths were accomplished by telekinesis." He takes a breath and a bite of his sandwich.

"What about trace evidence, they got anything?"

He shakes his head. "Nope, but that's why I wanted access diagrams of the scenes. Maybe the pathway is through eye contact or visualization. However, I believe just as with the pyrokinesis, the brain stimulation technique was honed over time."

"Yeah, or maybe the guy just got bored with strangling people--needed a new thrill. Rodney, how're we gonna stop this? What if he decides he's had enough of turning people into cinders, what then? How can we find this one person in--"

He takes a swallow of his beer and calls up a file on the computer. Then he turns to me, another big grin on his face, and hands me a stack of papers. Registrar records, with really small print and it's late. "Dammit, Rodney. Just cut to the chase here, huh."

He starts to type. "Yes. Those are enrollment records. Don't know if you caught it, but each of our venues is home to a university or center providing different degrees of parapsychology study." I hadn't, but he already knew that, that's why he mentioned it. "On a hunch, I checked to see if any were hosting student volunteer study programs�"you know testing, clinical trials and whatnot."

I flip through the papers. "I'm guessing the answer was yes."

"Precisely. In fact, each school was conducting studies of psychokinetic abilities during the dates of the similar crimes."

"And?" There's that look again. The one I'm not too fond of.

"And… I was able to obtain the records of the students and other volunteers who participated in these programs and ran them through a correlation program and voila!" He points to the screen. There's one name listed half a dozen times: Dorie Chandler.

I squint at the screen. "A woman? You're telling me a woman committed these crimes?"

"Technically, yes."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"She's only eighteen."

He takes advantage of the fact that I'm speechless and continues. "Hey, it's a proven fact that more females are gifted with telekinetic ability than males, and this one, apparently from an early age. But then, in the majority of the documented cases, the late teens into early adulthood is generally when the ability seems to be at its strongest."

"So we're looking for a... girl. An eighteen year-old killing machine." As far as I'm concerned, that kills the chance of finding her fingerprints on file, unless she's some kind of criminal child prodigy. "Anything linking her to these crimes?"

"Not all of them, no. But I was able to glean some information from some of the follow-up reports and subsequent investigations. For instance, Ms. Chandler babysat for one of the Palo Alto victims and another attended the same college there, even had a class with her. Nothing in the Oregon cases. I've not had the opportunity to check through all the North Carolina police reports yet. But, these could just be coincidences. We could also be looking at victims here who were chosen totally at random, so I wouldn't put too much emphasis on a personal connection."

"Yeah, well, that connection is just more glue to make a case with, Rodney. You know these guys can't go to the Grand Jury with supposition and coincidence. Prosecutors like personal connections."

He just looks at me and I know he sees the dilemma as clearly as I do. It's gonna be like proving murder without a body. "Then, how about you taking the North Carolina file and I'll get started on seeing if Ms. Chandler is registered at any of the local universities before--"

"Rodney, it's two o'clock in the morning."

"Oh. Okay, you can start in the morning." He turns back to his computer. "I'll be up later," he says, making shooing motions with his hand.

"I wasn't talking about just me." I stand up and lay my hand on his shoulder. "Damn, McKay, your traps are like iron." I move around behind him and knead my thumbs across the tight, thready muscles. "You gotta take a break now and then from sitting at this computer."

"Yeah, I know. But every minute counts and when we're so close…"

His words trickle to a stop as I start to really work into the stringy tissue, trying to smooth out the knots I feel even through his tee shirt. He leans his head forward and moans - a sound that sends a shiver straight down my back. I ease him forward and tug on his shirt, uncovering smooth, warm skin. As I work the tight muscles, moving lower, he groans at each touch, but when I slide beneath the shirt to get at his shoulders again, he suddenly sits back and I can feel him stiffen right away.

He turns his head sideways and clears his throat. "Uhm, thanks, but you go on to bed. I won't stay long--there are just a few things I really want to check out." And with that, he goes back to his work.

Dammit. He's made himself pretty clear and I have no choice but to go back to bed. Even tired as I am, I can't go to sleep right away, not until I take care of some personal business, which doesn't take long - not with the feel of tight muscles and soft skin still in my hands, and the way Rodney leaned back into me, those broad shoulders, and thinking of him pinning me to the bed with his weight, balls deep inside me, filling me up and… and then everything flashes bright before fading dark. Hell, I probably fell asleep with my dick still in my hand.

I'm up first the next morning and make my way down to start the coffee. Rodney's not in the study and I'm glad to see that, hoping he was able to get some rest. Once the coffee's brewed, I take a cup into the study and get started on that file.

The only connections I've found by the time McKay joins me is that one of the victims in North Carolina was enrolled at the same college with Dorie Chandler. Nothing that would have thrown up a red flag at the time, but warranted a notation in the file, and there's an interview with Chandler but, apparently, she wasn't very helpful.

All this isn't much to go on in individual instances, but given all the information in toto, it's pretty damn hard to ignore. The first seeds of anticipation start to gnaw, wondering what kind of connections we'd find right here.

Rodney was able to run down a photo of Ms. Chandler from her enrollment at Olympia College here in the city. He's faxed the photo and information he's gathered to Dex and they're on the phone now discussing our next steps.

Over the next few days, we'd discover a little more about our prime suspect.

As I mentioned, she's a student at Olympia College, a psych major taking courses this semester in abnormal psychology and aberrant behavior. Although Olympia does have a Parapsychology department, she isn't participating in any of the studies, nor is she taking any paranormal studies classes.

The next thing for us is waiting for Dex to run the name through their computers and have his men go back through witness statements and door-to-door interviews to see if anything pops up.

Later that afternoon, we get a call from Ronon and meet him down at the Precinct office. In one of the interrogation rooms, he shows us what they've come up with. Rodney makes humming noises now and then and nods as he reads the reports and the more I read, the easier it is to see what has Ronon so excited.

The connections between some of the victims and Ms. Chandler are more apparent than in the old cases, and they're very unusual. Turns out, she was actually the one to file the report on Freyberg for abusing his kid, the one Child Services removed from the home. It seems she'd wanted both the kids in protective custody and became angry and belligerent with the CS caseworker when it was explained to her there was no evidence to warrant removing the younger child.

The connection to the writer, is even more bizarre. Apparently, both were members of a literary discussion group that met regularly at one of the local bookshops. According to a couple of other members of the group, Chandler and Wright clashed on more than one occasion regarding their opinions. One witness reported a particularly ugly argument regarding the merits of the movie version of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings versus its literary value. Two days later, Wright's dead.

All of this is great, you know, but there's still no actual physical evidence linking our suspect to the scenes.

Ronon calls the Captain in and she sits impassively through our presentation. Some of our conclusions sound a bit flimsy said aloud, but overall, even she can't deny there's something hinky about Chandler.

The Captain pauses a moment. "Let's get her in here, Ronon. But I want this by the book. Make her feel comfortable, she's just giving a witness statement--do not let her know we suspect anything. Depending on the outcome of the interview, I'll decide whether or not we need surveillance."

He nods and we all stand up. At least Rodney waits 'til she's left the room before he goes off. "You mean you're not going to ask Chandler about California, North Carolina or her participation in the paranormal studies or why she's been enrolled in eight different universities over the past three years, and oh look, what a coincidence, similar murders in those locations?"

I admire Ronon's ability to keep his cool. We both know Rodney knows better. "McKay, I ask her just one of those questions and she's outta here. She'll disappear so fast it'd make your head spin. Get it? Gonna be hard enough to make something stick as it is. We can't afford to spook her."

"Then why bother interrogating her at all? Why not just put a tail on her, get a search warrant, something? I'm telling you, you're going to tip her off no matter what."

"Probable cause." I say, but he knows that too. He's just pissed that we're so close and I understand, but the Captain's right and I tell Rodney that.

Ronon asks what he means by tipping her off and Rodney rifles through some papers in his file and flops out a report from one of the paranormal studies. "I haven't said anything before, well, because there wasn't any real need, but the studies she's volunteered for over the years haven't only been to measure and quantify her telekinetic abilities."

I give Ronon a thoughtful look. "What're you saying, Rodney?"

"She may have psychic abilities as well. Look, do you think anyone with the knowledge we have can sit down in front of her and she won't know something's up? And you'll need to pick a victim, too. You start asking about her connection with more than one of these people and, hell, I'm not sure she'd need to be psychic to be spooked."

Rodney has a point and I cut my eyes to Ronon.

"Easy," he says. "We'll use a detective who knows nothing, just thinks they're taking a witness statement. Say we're doing follow up investigations and her name was given to us by other witnesses as someone who knew the victim."

"Uhm, well, yeah that might work. But I'm telling you--"

"C'mon, Rodney, what's the probability of this anyway? Can we know for sure?"

He scowls at me. "You know as well as I there aren't any absolutes in this field of study. You show this report to a scientist and he'll laugh you out of his lab--but that's not to say thought transference or the ability to read another's mind aren't real phenomena."

After a lengthy discussion on procedure, Rodney insists on viewing the interview and I agree it's not a bad idea, but we all decide to do it by closed circuit television instead of viewing through the two-way glass. Rodney thinks even that may not be enough to keep from picking up on our thoughts and for just a moment, I start to get a little worried. I mean someone who can nuke your brain with their thoughts… I'm thinking of the best way to ask McKay to sit this one out.

~~~~

The morning of the interview, we all meet briefly with Detective Francine Meyers. Ronon's picked her specifically because she has a way of making people feel at ease, and being a woman, has the potential to make Chandler more comfortable about talking.

Rodney and I make our way down the hall and set up in another of the drab interrogation rooms. Detective Meyers handles the preliminaries by the book and our suspect seems completely at ease. If I just walked in on this cold, I'd swear Chandler was here to report a lost dog or a stolen bicycle or something. I mean, she's that innocent looking. The young woman we're watching on the screen doesn't look like she'd hurt a fly, much less do the kind of damage we were looking at in this case. She's got a slim build and long ashy-blonde hair, pretty. Her delicate hands are graceful as she folds them on the table in front of her.

The interview goes as well as can be expected. Chandler's a cool one, there's no doubt about that, and Rodney doesn't think she'll show any cracks in that demeanor - not someone that controlled. I guess he's right, but truthfully, Meyers isn't getting anywhere. We picked the Suarez case because, obviously, the two of them attending the same school would be a more natural reason for bringing her in.

She's incredibly polite and soft-spoken, so much so that I begin to think we've made a mistake. I stare at the screen looking for anything, body language, slip of the tongue, but there's nothing… until she starts to talk about the victim. There's something in her voice… like dripping ice water down my back and as she talks her eyes flash. On screen, I can't tell the color, but there's no doubt that something in her whole demeanor changes whenever the victim's name is mentioned.

"Wait, what'd she just say?"

Rodney looks over at me, eyes wide. "She mentioned Suarez's cats."

"But didn't she say earlier she'd never been to Suarez's apartment, just knew her from classes?" Of course, Meyers doesn't know what we know so she can't follow up, but on the surface, it seems damning - at least I think so until Rodney pulls the rug out from under me.

"Well, you know, she had eight cats in a tiny apartment. She probably carried the evidence around with her--the odor, cat hair and don't you think someone with that many cats would talk about them? Chandler didn't say they'd never talked."

He was right, but I still had some hope that it might be just the kind of slip to get her back in or at least warrant surveillance. Meyers concludes the interview, thanks Chandler and our screen goes black. We wait around a few minutes then head out to find Ronon.

We round the corner and there she is. My heart hits the back of my throat and we both stop in our tracks. She's just standing there in the corridor staring at us and we've just given ourselves away, big time. She smiles at Rodney then levels a glare at me that lets me know loud and clear if she weren't surrounded by cops, I'd end up like the others. Then she turns and walks calmly down the hall.

"Fuck," Rodney mutters.

Piercing blue. Her eyes. I'll never forget that look. I'm not sure if Rodney noticed and I don't say anything to Ronon about it either, but it left no doubt of what she might be capable of.

Rodney says he's got some work to do and doesn't seem to want company, so I decide to hang around with Ronon. I'm a little concerned for Rodney, but then he carries a Glock and knows how to use it. Still.

Ronon and I go over the interview tape once again and when he punches out for the day, we're off to get a beer.

I watch Ronon drain half his bottle in one go and bang it down on our table. "McKay was right--wasted interview. We bring her back in now, she's gonna know for sure we suspect her and she's gonna bolt."

I make a face and shrug, drawing my finger around the rim of my glass. "May as well have been wearing a flashing sign… seeing her in the hallway. She already knows, I can feel it."

Ronon grunts. "At least we've got a starting place. Surveillance team's already on it--we'll see."

That makes me feel a little better about Rodney. I look Eddie's way and raise my glass. "That's just one of our problems, chief. Even if you had enough to arrest her tomorrow--"

He grunts again. "No kidding. Where's our evidence? Something solid I can take to the DA? With what we've got, even if I could get a prosecutor to bring a case, there's no guaranty of getting an indictment--laughed out of the Grand Jury more like and then she'll either continue or…"

"Move on… yeah, I got that."

We sit in silence for a few moments sipping our beer, well I'm sipping.

"Leave it to McKay," I finally say. "He'll think of something, he always does."

"You believe that, don't you?"

I consider that - and him. "Yeah… yeah, I do."

He smirks at me. "You two set a date yet?"

I am not amused and make sure he knows it.

"C'mon, Sheppard, I don't need to be a detective to see you like him. Besides, you guys are perfect for each other, though I don't know how you--"

"He doesn't know, okay?" I stare at my glass and thumb away the beads of condensation.

"What, that you like him or that you're gay?"

I duck my head at that. "Neither."

"You haven't told him?" I shake my head and he claps me on the shoulder. "Sorry, man. Good luck with that." He drains his bottle and motions for another.

We finish the next round and I glance at my watch. It's not late, but I just have this feeling that I want to get home. Dex picks up the tab this time and we head outside. He offers to drive me, but I want to walk a bit and tell him I'll catch a cab up the block.

Suddenly, it's like someone's got an iron grip around my neck and shoulders. I'm paralyzed, I mean I can't fucking move and maybe part of that is being scared, but I can't even tell Ronon what's going on. He's looking at me and all I can do is look back. As soon as I open my mouth, the grip tightens. That's when I see her.

She's standing not twenty feet away, right out in the fucking open. I'm quickly coming to the point I can't breathe and then it eases up. She's fucking playing with me and that makes me madder than hell, because she knows she can. Damn it! I should have gone home with Rodney. Rodney. Jesus, I'd never see him again, never have--

The grip tightens again and there's an incredible pressure between my ears. Fuck, is that my brain about to fry or what? My heart's beating out of my chest and I cut my eyes first at Dex and then back to her, but he still doesn't get it. Jesus, it's almost like she's glowing, standing there surrounded by this… light. Ronon's got his cell phone out calling for back up and an ambulance. It takes everything in me, but I get my arm up, trying to point in her direction and thank Christ, Ronon finally sees. He spins around and draws his weapon, but she just turns on her heels.

I hit my knees and fall forward, desperately trying to suck air through the growing pressure at my throat. My chest burns from lack of air and I hear a single shot before everything goes black.

~~~~

I'm awake, I think. I hear people talking, but can't really make out the words and, oh God, that smell. I'm either in the fucking morgue, which means I'm dead, or I'm in a hospital. I want to be able to open my eyes but the lids are like lead weights. I try to talk and maybe something comes out because suddenly there's a hand on mine. Then I hear Rodney's voice and I almost piss the bed I'm so relieved. He's telling me I'm okay, but I'm still not so sure.

I finally drag my eyes open to face a very worried looking McKay. I think I smile, at least that's what I want to do, but every movement feels like I'm making it from deep underwater. It must have worked because he's smiling back, sort of.

"Rodney?" Jesus, my voice sounds like flat tires over gravel - feels that way too. Ronon's there and then I remember. I look at him and start to speak but he cuts me off, shaking his head.

"She slipped by us. Don't know how… she's gone."

My eyes drift shut and a huge knot crowds the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. There's nothing left to say. Everyone in the room knows we've lost her. God damn it! We were so close. Evidence problems aside, we were so close. Rodney and Ronon are talking about something and then Ronon calls out that he'll see me later. The bed dips and when I open my eyes again, Rodney's sitting there. Something red hot slips up my spine as he lays a hand on my thigh.

"We've lost her," he says and I nod. He's apologizing all over the place and I reach over and take his hand to quiet him and shrug. He grips my hand. "Almost lost you--I, uhm…" My heart starts to beat faster and the knot tightens as he slides his thumb over my knuckles.

~~~~

Seriously, making Rodney understand that if the doctors didn't feel I was ready for work they wouldn't have released me is like trying to reason with a two year-old. For chrissakes, I have a bruised larynx and the remnants of a concussion from hitting the pavement, but he insists that I spend another day in bed.

I keep our arguing to a minimum because yeah, talking is still a bit like grating metal with my throat. At least the docs say there's no permanent damage. I've got the newspaper, TV, and Rodney's made sure I've got a couple of new Sudoko books to keep me occupied. Personally, it feels pretty good to know I can just go back to sleep if I want.

I haven't seen Rodney all morning. I've heard him on the phone with Ronon a couple of times, just enough to know they've had no luck in tracking Chandler down.

When he brings my lunch tray in, he sets it on my lap and sits down on the bed. Even though I know the answer, I still ask if there's anything new. He shakes his head and I realize that I haven't seen him smile since I came to in the hospital. Having a suspect bolt on you is devastating, but especially one as dangerous as this one. I want to tell him that she'll slip up, she'll do this somewhere else and then we'll be able to pick up her trail again, but I'm not sure that's much comfort to him. He'd only argue how senseless it is for someone else to have to die before we can do that, and he'd be right. He'd also argue that it was his fault and he shouldn't have insisted on us being present for the interview, and then I'd have to disagree with him. We took every precaution. It should have been up to the interview officer or some other uniform to escort the suspect out.

I know what Rodney's going through. It's agonizing when all you can do is sit back and wait. I decide not to say anything at all and just start in on my lunch. He's still sitting there like he's trying to work up the nerve to--

"Why didn't you ever tell me you were gay?"

The words hit me like a brick, several actually, and it takes a few seconds for me to swallow. All I can do is stare at him.

"Hmm? Why?"

"Rodney, I--how did you--"

He gives me this oh please look. "It's my job to employ deductive reasoning on a daily basis, plus I can read a police report. The Raging Stallion? Jesus Christ, John. There are a dozen or more gay bars in just the Metro area alone, and you have to pick one with the cheesiest name in history?"

"Wha--Ronon and I stopped there for a beer. I--"

There was the glare again. "The night I called Ruthie's to find you, they told me to call the same place, said you went there a lot. I thought it was just a mistake, but then other things started falling into place."

"Rodney--"

"I thought you trusted me?"

"I did… I do--" His blue eyes are like steel as he looks right through me and I can't stand it. I look away, running all my reasons for not telling him over in my head, but they all sound so lame I don't want to repeat them.

"Did you think it would change things, that I would see you differently? What?"

I feel my cheeks burn and know he's too smart not to be able to read me, but somehow, I just can't bring myself to say anything and I suppose to him, that says everything.

"Ronon knows? Your other friends, they all know?"

I think about using the defense that I don't have that many other friends, but I just study my tray and nod.

He stands up. "I thought you knew me better." Closing the door behind him, he leaves something heavy and oppressive hanging in the air - something that crushes my chest and steals my appetite. It seems like an eternity before I can take my next breath. Things will change now, but not for any of the reasons I ever feared.

Thoughts ricochet around in my brain and that slowly elevating grip of panic starts to overtake me. I think about getting up to pack my stuff. Better to leave on my own than wait for Rodney to ask, or worse, to throw me out. And then the door opens. Rodney's back. I watch him as he walks to the bed and it hits me hard to see the hurt in his eyes. I'd sooner take another crack on the pavement. "Listen, Rodney, I'll leave okay, just give me a day or--"

"Have you--have you ever thought about me that way?"

My chest tightens even more - I mean what's the right answer here? If I say yes, will I make him angry? If I say no, will he be offended? Will I offend him no matter what I say? I'm probably gaping like a trout thrown out on a bank and he's standing there waiting for an answer. I figure I'm screwed anyway, so what the hell… "What do you mean that way?"

"Have you ever been attracted to me--ever wanted to, uhm…"

I take a deep breath and step off the edge. "Yes."

He seems to consider that a minute. "Well, that explains a few things."

"Like what?"

"Well, the startling lack of hot women for one. I figured you weren't bringing anyone home because… I mean, I couldn't figure it out. I--"

"Rodney--"

"I think about you when I jack off," he blurts out. "Not, you know, every time, but more lately." He's not looking at me anymore, but I can't take my eyes off him. He sighs and his shoulders slump a little. "I think about what you'd look like naked, how I'd like to touch you. I come imagining it's your hand on me, and every time I tell myself it's the last time, and you…"

He leans down and takes the tray off my lap, lets it fall to the floor and climbs onto the bed. The sound of the clattering china mixes with my own pulse flooding my ears, pounding my neck and head full of heat, making me dizzy.

"And you never saw it," he says sitting next to me. "All this time, you never said anything about--"

"But you're not gay, Rodney. I--"

"What does that mean? I have to have a label before I can find you attractive? I have to have a certain lifestyle before you'll accept I have feelings for you that go beyond a normal friendship, more than just camaraderie between colleagues? Fuck, John... do I need to wear a sign to want you?"

My fingers are tight from gripping the sheet. I can't find the words fast enough for the logic he's throwing at me.

"Gay, straight, what the fuck ever. Does enjoying your company, missing you when you're not here, does that make me gay? Does wanting you around all the time, wanting to... I'm not attracted to men, I'm attracted to you. That enough to make me gay? Then maybe I am." He reaches over and turns my face to his. "All I know, is that I could have lost you yesterday and it scared the fuck out of me."

He takes my hand and he's still so tentative and shaky, or maybe that's me. I pull him closer. He's always had this amazing ability to say what's on his mind and be brilliant, even when it tumbles out all at once like this. I can't do that, but I've got a choice, I can let things move fast, like my body's begging me, or I can take it slow. In the end, I figure we've already crossed the Rubicon, or at least have our toes in, and I don't want to miss a single, wonderful thing.

I ask if I can kiss him and he says if I don't he's gonna throw me out for good. His lips are as soft and full as I'd imagined. I love the way his bottom lip pulls at me, so eager, but I keep things slow, enjoying the warm tug of his mouth on mine - until I start thinking about the things he said, and when his tongue licks an invitation, I can't hold back any more. I reach for the back of his neck to keep from falling into the bottomlessness of the kiss.

I'm on fire as he slips his hand beneath my shirt, inching it up my back, pulling me closer, and I swear, at this point, I don't know what's holding me together. He's so hot and I'm so hard. I want him to touch me everywhere at once and like he can read my mind, he does, and then we're pulling at shirts and zippers and I moan at his weight on me as he pushes me down and slides his knee between my thighs…

~~~~

It hadn't taken long to determine Chandler had gone AWOL. Ronon told us they'd confiscated what little effects she'd left in her dorm. These items were catalogued and processed and then boxed up with the other evidence. There were no "Dorie Chandlers" on any flights, trains or buses out of the city, but then we didn't expect there to be. She was just gone.

A little more than a week later, I'm at my desk in the study, beginning a new investigation for a paying client, when Rodney comes in, kisses the back of my neck and drops the mail on his side of the desk. He takes his seat opposite me and I smile and go back to my reports. After a minute or two of listening to him rip open envelopes--

"Jesus Christ!"

He's sitting there and almost as white as the unfolded letter in his hand. "What is it Rodney, what's wrong?"

"Jesus," he says again and hands the letter and envelope across the polished mahogany.

The letter's printed in basic courier typeface on plain white, no watermark. There's no signature or return address on either the letter or the envelope. The only thing traceable is the Catonsville, Maryland postmark, and we both know that, and $4.50 will get you a decent latte.

As I read, the words raise the hair on my body, leaving me cold:

_Dear Dr. McKay,_

_First, I would like to thank you. The generous grants from the McKay-Miller Foundation made it possible for me to attend Olympia College. I am just sorry I will not be able to complete the semester. I understand your family foundation also funds many other deserving educational endeavors, including the Parapsychology department at Oregon State University and The California Institute of Integral Studies._

_Second, may I say what a gifted man you are. As far as I am concerned, your work in the field of forensic pathology is unsurpassed, with your investigating skills rivaling that of your partner. Fortunately, I cannot say the same for the Twelfth Precinct. I admire the abilities and faculties it took to locate me, though I am most distressed that you lifted me from my relative obscurity. The city was full of vermin like Wright and Fryeberg and I do not think even your detective friend would argue that they got what they deserved. Alas, you and I know the world is a very big place. There will always be another city more vile, a town more corrupt than the last, teeming with human refuse. Although, I should point out that I don't think you will be so lucky again. I am good at disappearing, good at being invisible._

_Lastly, I want to apologize for hurting Mr. Sheppard. I didn't realize how much he cared for you. His last thoughts that night, before I released him, were for you. If you do not know of his feelings by now, perhaps it would be in your best interest to find out. There is so little love in the world, Dr. McKay, and it would be a shame if you never found it._

_I wish you the best. Do not spend your time worrying about me. I am sure we will never meet again, and in some ways, I feel that is truly an injustice. I think we would have much to talk about._

_P.S. Martina Suarez ignored her kitties. They suffered much. She also didn't take her education seriously. She thought knowledge was knowing how many hours Paris Hilton spent on the toilet or puking her guts out in any given week - just thought you'd like to know._

I look at Rodney and neither one of us says anything for a long time.

That night we make love like it's our last night on Earth and hold each other, taking turns sleeping while the other watches - for what I'm not sure. And that brings me back to the present.

Chandler's trail finally goes stone cold. Without any other lead to follow, we can only suffer the long, tortuous wait, checking police records at intervals, waiting for another victim, another chance to catch her. Our lives fall back into a routine, but with one exception: we take nothing for granted.

Rodney and I have shared a bed since that first afternoon. We're happy together and we try not to let this case get to us, but it does. Every now and then, it does. Like this evening. We'd been shopping and were putting away the groceries when the house phone rings. Rodney's closer, so he answers. I think nothing of it until I realize that he's not berating some telemarketer or rattling on in conversation.

I go to the door and look out into the hallway. He's fiddling with a small box beside the phone and I know right away who's on the other end, only she never talks long enough for the trace to work. Rodney knows this but he goes through the motions just the same. Then he tries to engage her - tries to keep her talking just a few seconds longer, hoping she'll slip up. But she never does.

Rodney takes the tape from the recording device. We'll send it to Ronon in the morning. He can add it to the others--store them in the file with all the other evidence and reports.

I go over and pull Rodney close, letting his warmth surround me. His lips find that spot on my neck and he kisses me softly. As usual, the case will haunt us for a few days… until we've fucked enough and held each other enough to make it fade into the background again... until next time.

I press my lips to his temple and he whispers in my ear, "Dorie says hi."

~fin~


End file.
